


Never Tamed

by disillusionist9



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arithmancy, Bottom Charlie Weasley, Curse Breaker Draco Malfoy, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friendship, Healer Hermione Granger, Humor, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Redemption, Tattoos, Top Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-07-28 21:23:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7657252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disillusionist9/pseuds/disillusionist9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Numquam ceterorum domantur. Never tamed. The Dark Mark was a gateway to the desire to cover his flesh in something that meant more, words and symbols and pictures that cleansed him of the dirty feeling of the writhing skull and snake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unum

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is all for fun, I do not claim ownership of the characters or anything recognized from the work of JK Rowling. I am only borrowing them.
> 
> Playlist: Take Me to Church - Sinead O'Connor | Afraid of Everyone - The National | Relief Next to Me - Tegan and Sara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ONE

_**-Unum-** _

Draco Malfoy kept a close record of all the things in his life that he could blame on Harry Potter. Mentally, of course, since such a list would be horrendously degrading if it ever fell into the hands of the _Prophet_ or heaven forbid Granger.

"That reminds me, I need to owl her about dinner."

No one answered him. He didn't expect them to, anyway.

Draco sat alone in his flat, purchased outright from his personal account, with only the sounds of Diagon Alley below him as a response. Many of the residents of the flats around him had vacated their homes for the evening and likely most of the next few days to celebrate St. Patrick's Day in Ireland. Though many wizards and witches were abroad, the streets below were still filled with droves of people who couldn't afford to travel or the exorbitant prices of the tickets to the Ballycastle Bats.

Though he certainly could afford them, at least since his funds were released from Ministry clutches ( _war reparations_ they said), he could not justify spending so many Galleons on a game sure to be a disappointment. The Ballycastle Bats were swiftly out-losing the Chudley Cannons, and would soon undertake them in the league; ridiculous holiday frivolities would serve to make the event more...gauche.

Standing from his armchair facing the ceiling to floor windows of his top floor flat, Draco took care not to spill his drink. The ice clinked softly as he placed it down on the coaster. Mother had insisted on coasters, though he couldn't be bothered to care about the second hand furniture in this second home.

In all honesty he spent more time at the flat than the Manor these days. Once his funds were released, and he had the option to leave the grounds as a free man, nothing stopped him from purchasing this small sanctuary. Though he was certain he'd done so on the sly, he swore his parents just _knew_. The two of them _knew_ everything!

"Meddlesome," he grumbled to himself.

The walk from the armchair to the bookcase was the first movement he'd made in hours, and it felt stiff and difficult. While snow was a near-distant memory, the outside air still clung to the inside of Draco's lungs surer than the tar from his cigarettes. Cold easily permeated the soft layers of his lungs and deep into the marrow of the bones holding all the pieces together.

He was certain that if anyone would have warned him of the side effects of spending time in Azkaban, his godfather would have, but he got himself killed by a fucking Horcrux like some thrice damned martyr. Severus would have given him a laundry list of problems, even though the man himself was held for a few weeks, perhaps a month, and their remedies. Draco ignored the voice in his head whispering, if he cared to know, he had the time and resources to research his own remedy. Firewhiskey helped to silence those thoughts.

A fire slept within the hearth, cracking now and then to request his attention. Draco ignored it as steadfastly as his conscience or whatever was nagging him since, even as a roaring blaze, it could not defrost the layers of ice within him.

Each step was agony. Granger tutted and fretted over his legs and feet, waving her wand and suggesting this book or that potion, and finally naming his symptoms after some fairytale written by a Muggle he'd never heard of. He all but cursed her when she suggested that he resembled a _little mermaid_ of all things; the surge of his temper had almost chipped a layer into the ice, but not enough to grant him any relief.

No one knew that you could get addicted to Pepper-Up and the warm feeling it created. After the diagnosis, the Healer at St. Mungo's suggested he move someplace warmer like the South Pacific or Caribbean. At the time, Draco was relying more heavily than he'd ever admit on the kindness of Granger and Potter, so he'd nodded like a good patient and gone home to consider the suggestion face down in a pint of cheap ale. Now the prescribed relocation seemed a fool's errand.

"Fuck this," Draco shouted at the empty cooling cabinet. Slamming the door shut he swiped his empty flask from the countertop and his heaviest cloak from the back of the kitchen chair.

Each step was agony, but he would be damned if he stayed inside staring out the window, counting the stars as sleep eluded him, for another night in a row. He would get good and pissed in a bar like a normal person on St. Patrick's Day.


	2. Ebrius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> INTOXICATED

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A/N] originally posted on FFN 4.3.2016 *waves* Hello! Clarification on what I am considering pairings that count towards the Rare Pairs collection: As a couple, they have less than 0.05% representation on this site. This is with the ONLY filter as the pairing, not narrowed down by language or rating or anything. As of posting this story, there are 39 stories out of 738,000 featuring these two! For those who would like to know, that is 0.00005%.
> 
> Playlist: Nice Dream - Radiohead | Itch - Nothing But Thieves | Arms of Sorrow - Killswitch Engage

The atmosphere inside of the Leaky was stifling, and not because of the constant press of bodies around him, but the gazes that lingered just a bit too long. It didn't matter if they were pitying, malicious, apprehensive, or blatantly curious; each and every one of them itched at the back of his neck or made his hand wish he could hold his wand openly.

In a move he was certain would make Granger's eyes light up with pride, he drew his coat more firmly over his shoulders, walked through the throng of witches and wizards, then swept onto the streets of London. If memory served him there was a pub two blocks down that she'd taken him to for lunch with an enclosed corner at the bar where he could hide.

One of the several debts Draco counted as, unfortunately, owed to Potter was the freedom to make that choice and walk in public without an Auror tailing him. The last time a Ministry lackey shadowed him was, embarrassingly, for his _own_ protection.

Green eyes pitied him and let him vent his frustrations before offering him a cup of tea, in a tone of voice that was much too reminiscent of Dumbledore offering sweets, and to take a seat across his office desk. When Draco flatly declined the offer of a biscuit, the other man fiddled with his wedding ring and never quite met his guest's gaze.

Draco was certain Potter's lengthy explanation was meant to make him feel better, but no amount of perfect tea or soft-spoken practical words could buffer the truth: the public was livid after his release only one year into his fifty year Azkaban sentence, but that was nothing close to the riotous rage enclosed in dozens of Howlers after Draco's house arrest also ended early.

Without a word, he'd finished his tea tactfully _not_ laced with Calming Draught, thanked the Head Auror and set his shoulders to accept the added protection. Pity was, not even his self-imposed extended house arrest pacified the masses. Only the divorce of Ron and Hermione Weasley outshone his disgrace. When Draco sent her a dozen roses in a cheeky attempt to congratulate the witch and thank her for taking the focus from him, Granger returned them, burnt, with a note asking him to dinner the next evening.

Draco shook some bright green and orange streamers from his hair as he walked through the open door of the pub. The maudlin reminiscent thoughts were not as simple to shake away.

He was continually reminded of the things Muggles were able to do without magic, especially on similar late night wanderings. The pub was as crowded as the Leaky but felt lighter and more welcoming than the wizarding establishment could even imagine being.

Instead of pushing through or fighting the crowds like in the Leaky, Draco allowed momentum to carry him up to the bar, eddies of movement eventually depositing him to that dark corner where he could fill his lungs to capacity.

"Evening, love," called the barmaid, leaning over a steaming machine Draco had observed before used to clean the glasses and dishes. Her false Irish accent was atrocious, Draco barely contained a frown. "What's good?"

"Gin and tonic, two limes. Tall." Draco automatically replied.

Pounds were simple enough to understand, so the bill he placed on the bar easily conveyed he intended to purchase several drinks over the course of the next few hours. The girl nodded, took his note, and scooped ice into a glass, moving to the other end of the bar.

He watched her closely as she walked away. Any other man at the bar would misconstrue the attention on her form and not her actions, but Draco was dead set on persuading her to grasp the real Beefeater from below the counter. A simple whispered spell revealed the stink of the swill hidden within an identical bottle as soon as he'd reached the bar. He'd learned Potions from a Master privately for years, and if there was one thing he gleaned from the lessons with Snape it was how to sniff out a sub-par concoction. No amount of tonic could drown the lackluster quality of a bad gin.

Draco removed his pea coat and Slytherin scarf (he had to have a bit of green, of course) to drape elegantly over the back of his chair. He never worried about a pickpocket rummaging through his pockets; his tailor was adept at stinging charms marking the perpetrator. Painfully.

The move was purely strategic. Every layer was precious to him in order to slow the building ice in his veins, but it was vastly safer to fit into the crowd around him. Walking into the bar he wore a crisp black button downed shirt and tie above his dark jeans. Gripping his wand in his coat pocket he'd discreetly transfigured the button down to a less formal black cotton shirt. Draco rolled up his sleeves a bit to avoid gathering bits of leftover sugar and salt on the bar top.

"Fuckin' hell, mate! What shop did that for ye?"

Draco turned his gaze slightly towards the man four chairs down from him. Over the sound of the live band in the corner covering the Irish national anthem, poorly, the man needed to shout for Draco to hear him. Unfortunately that meant he could smell his breath from the extended distance.

When the man could tell Draco had no clue what he was on about, he shouted even louder and gestured wildly to his own arm. "Yer ink, mate, it's brilliant. Where'd ye get it?"

The drunkard was reaching over the bar, and several people, intending to touch Draco's slightly exposed left forearm. Draco read his intention and pulled his arm completely out of his reach.

With a slap the gawker's hand met the bar. "Fuck, what's got yer knickers in a bunch?"

"Ease up."

A hand gripped the other man's shoulder, appearing from within the crowd of people so quickly it was like he Apparated. Draco attempted to move so he could see who'd spoken in such a commanding tone towards the would-be assailant to his person. Unfortunately, the crush of bodies picked up both the drunk man and the owner of the slightly tanned and very scarred freckled arm, and away from the bar.

It only took a few tugs to bring his sleeves back down to his wrists. Draco drained his drink and summoned the bartender over, switching his choice to a clean shot of a bitter dark licorice tasting drink. The faster he drank through the bill he'd given the barmaid, the faster he could get the fuck out and avoiding any further attention to his Dark Mark.


	3. Flictus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> COLLISION

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A/N] originally posted on FFN on 4.4.2016. 
> 
> Playlist: Neon Bible - The Arcade Fire

Draco's eyes shot open, a move he immediately regretted. Bright lights assaulted his vision at the same time a crescendo of sound filled his ears with increasing volume, creating more pressure on his pounding head.

A gentle but firm hand rested on his shoulder, then a friendly but unknown face filled his vision. "Don't get up, sir. We've got to move you off the street."

The woman's voice was muffled as though he were underwater. The sound of sirens, ones he sometimes heard outside of the walls of Diagon Alley, battered at his skull. His thoughts were sluggish as well, as if his brain was replaced with mud. Was she moving closer to him or was that a trick of the light shattering his concentration? She directed a tiny light into first his left then his right eye and back again. Blinking, he involuntarily followed the trail she made.

"He's in shock, I can't tell if his back is damaged yet so be careful when you move him."

He was horizontal, the realization dawning on him all at once; that was why the buildings around him looked so tall and the sky so claustrophobically close. Something warm collected against his right arm, creeping from his elbow up to his shoulder. The angle of his body felt odd, as though his legs were elevated…

Concrete scratched at the line of his skin between his trousers and shirt and he recoiled against the abrasive feeling immediately. Another poor choice.

"Please, don't move sir, you've been struck by a lorry. I'm here to help you, we're going to take you to a hospital."

In retrospect, Draco understood moving to crawl away from the mystery woman offering him help was the third poor decision in a row, but his drunken mind on autopilot could hardly recognize that in the moment.

A few small bursts of magic assisted his attempts, and he made a bit of headway, even with what he would learn later was a broken femur, before a stab of sedative in his thigh ended the jerky motions. Sucking in air through his teeth and whining like a caged animal, Draco fought the impending sleep with all he had, until his muscles relaxed and a sudden rush of pain knocked him unconscious.


	4. Peregrinus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE STRANGER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A/N] originally posted on FFN on 4.6.2016. Moving right along! I adore each and every one of you who are reviewing, following, adding this to your favorites, and reblogging this on tumblr. You are gems of the rarest and highest quality!
> 
> Playlist: In the Company of Wolves - Incubus | Seven Devils - Florence + the Machine | Requiem for a Dream - Lux Aeterna

Draco folded his arms more firmly across his chest, staring out the window in a full pout, complete with raised shoulder blades and clenched jaw. The entire image was flawed by the standard-issue St. Mungo's hospital gown.

"You need to eat, you prat," admonished his visitor.

"Are Healers allowed to speak to their patients that way? Merlin, father is right, St. Mungo's really has gone to the crups now that Muggleborns are running it -"

A swift slap upside the head surprised him enough to pause his tirade. Just as swiftly, a spoon entered his still gaping mouth.

Granger glared triumphantly at him. "I'm not your Healer, thank the goddess, I'm here as your _friend_ and as a _friend_ I am telling you to _eat_!"

Draco swallowed, loudly, since he knew the sound would make her grit her teeth. Granger hated gritting her teeth. Solid payback.

"You've spent too much time around Weasley." In an instant the same spoon was brandished in his face the same as a wand, filled again with the hospital food that smelled like a first year's failed potion. He decided to drop that line of inquiry when the look he received gave a Basilisk a run for its money. "What sort of friend force feeds another?"

"What sort of friend stoops as low as to blame the blood status of the other for all the problems in the world?"

"Me, obviously."

"Ugh! Shut _up_ and eat this damned...whatever it is!"

"Ah ha! Then bring me something I will actually eat!" Draco sniffed theatrically as he continued, "You smell of eggs and fried tomatoes, traiter, why didn't you bring me a plate?"

"Draco Lucius Malfoy, I will hex you." Granger set the bowl of...porridge, was it?... down onto the tray with enough force for a bit to slop onto her hand.

He watched her walk away, a look of disgust pulling down the corners of her mouth, into the adjoining bathroom to wash her hands. Without a word, or turning to look at him sitting casually in bed, Granger snatched her white coat from the rack by the door and buttoned it up with magic.

"You're cute when you're angry, Head Healer!" Draco called to her retreating back, earning a nonverbal _fuck you_ from her left hand.

Healing bones in the wizarding world didn't particularly take long, and they were set and mended within hours of his transfer from Charing Cross to St. Mungo's. The cocktail of drugs pumped into his system, however, from the ambulance ride and emergency room visit, were more concerning.

"Morphine does not directly affect the administration of modified Pepper Up," drawled one Healer. "But we need to make sure the anaesthetics completely flush from your system, Mister Malfoy."

He was told many things he already knew: _the curse has moved to your femur in your left leg, you'll need to up your dose of Pepper Up, have you visited your Mind Healer recently_?

The last Healer bolted from the room before the patient ripped her apart with his bare hands.

Head Healer Hermione Granger escorted him down to the Floo Room, partly to protect against prying reporters with the force of her gaze, and partly to solidify plans to meet for dinner later that week. To Draco's chagrin he'd forgotten Theo's birthday was the twenty second.

"Bring the merlot we had at our engagement dinner," she said, holding out the Floo powder to him. "Theo enjoyed it."

"Surrounded by Slytherins, your subtlety has vastly improved since school, Granger." He grasped just a pinch, as his trip home was only a few miles away. "You're obviously aware it is a vintage in my parents' personal cellar? My mother owled you, then, about my lack of an _répondez s'il vous plaît_. As subtle as your words are becoming, your face still gives it all away, and your glee at _my_ discomfort is frankly disturbing."

The only response he received was a wolfish grin before green flames obstructed her from his view.

Shooting from the grate feet first onto the strategically placed rug, Draco steadied himself to charm away the soot clinging to his coat. The only clothes remotely normal that were with him were leftover from...forty-eight hours before? A _tempus_ confirmed the lorry struck him nearly seventy two hours previously.

"Merlin and his thrice damned hairy ass," Draco swore under his breath. There were several potions now expired in his stores that took weeks to replace. He would either have to purchase them (and accept lower quality), or beg enough doses off of Theo and Granger to last until his own brews completed.

His alarm was nearly physically palpable when he opened his potions cabinet, where some held aspirin or floss, and every single bottle was gone. Not even a breath-freshening or hair smoothing product remained.

"What the FUCK!"

A flurry of ward checking spells flew from his wand so quickly it sparked the air around him. More portions of Merlin's extensive and unfortunate anatomy were cursed and belittled as Draco's panic set in.

It wouldn't have been Granger; she would have told him point blank she'd gone to his flat to remove the delicate potions and would not have left him dry. Theo was the same, but a note pasted to the door or the cabinet was more his style. His parents' magical signatures were three weeks stale (damn them, sneaking into his flat, pretending to know nothing of it). Potter's thankfully was barely palpable enough to pick up.

There, a bright blue thread around his back door. The back door that only six people were aware existed, locked and hidden with a blood ward using dragon's and niffler blood. As eccentric the combination was, he rarely questioned wards or spells in his godfather's journals, and the protection had never failed him. Until now.

A feral snarl curled his upper lip as he pulled just enough of that magical signature away to cast a rather nasty finding hex on the malicious stranger.


	5. Quaerere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Search"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made an 8tracks for this! I have the link on my tumblr page, disillusionist9. Same username directly on 8tracks as well. ALSO commentary welcome but chiseplushie and I think Charcoal for this pairing title?
> 
> Playlist: Black Heart Inertia - Incubus | Blinding - Florence + the Machine

Theo glared blearily up at Draco as he paced back and forth in front of his fireplace. The man fell through his Floo at an hour he was not sure to call late night or early morning, shivering violently, and putting his house elves on edge, likely for the next two weeks.

"Why can't I trail this fucking signature," Draco muttered, his voice rising and falling in volume. With his hands behind his back he stalked rhythmically from one end of the study to the other. "Distance shouldn't be a problem, even considering Apparition, and it happened in the last three days."

Pausing in front of the clock on the mantle, Draco furiously swore as he read the time. "Four days! It's been four days! Bugger a centaur with a -"

"If you wake up Hermione, I'll let her have her way with you."

Draco continued to throw his temper tantrum, swinging around to leer at Theo, envious of his relaxed posture. "Promise?"

Theo threw the pillow next to him at Draco, missing spectacularly, the beaded projectile landing squarely in the fiery grate.

"Merlin that smells terrible," Theo whined, standing to cast a charm to siphon the acrid smoke up into the chimney. "I'm serious, she only just got in from the hospital a few hours ago, and she has godmother duties in the morning."

Draco's outburst was quelled by Theo's serious countenance. Bickering with him was one of the few joys he had left, but he owed the man for the emergency stores of the advanced Pepper Up, not available over the counter. Sighing mightily he spun on his heel, falling with practiced grace into one of the plush armchairs. Even if he had to pick long white kneazle hairs off his robes afterward, using Granger's seat was well worth it.

"I haven't had an auror trailing me in years, and I can't fathom who'd have the inclination and knowledge of and power to break into my flat while I was otherwise occupied."

"Draco, you and I will have anti-fans for the rest of our miserable lives, no matter how much campaigning in our favor bleeding hearts like Hermione and Potter do for us."

Draco scowled at the fire, his right hand itching for a cold glass with anything to distract him from the uncomfortable prickling in his joints. Every day the curse worked faster against the Pepper Up and wore down his patience along with it.

"Do you still have the signature with you?" Theo asked, his exhaustion unmasked in his voice, but determination also coloring it.

Against his will, the small gesture of camaraderie made Draco's eyes grow incredibly irritated and almost shining with tears. "Yes, but if it's not enough…"

"I'm sure it will be." Theo held out his wand for Draco to pass over the small shining light out of his pocket watch. Moving his wand in the same movements Draco had while at his flat, the raven haired wizard bent double to watch the little runes and glyphs appear next to the signature.

"Whoever it is, they have curse-breaking skills. Good ones, too. They didn't really have to try to break through your wards." Theo glanced up apologetically, but the fascinated look in his eyes made Draco perk up a bit.

Theodore Nott was a Master Arithmancer, officially trained in Russia, and was very particular about his hobbies. Curse-breaking was the least strange and most practical among them. Draco still didn't understand his affinity for, and his fiancée's tolerance of, the crystal goblet music.

"It wasn't a necessarily unfriendly intrusion," Theo said as he monitored the rune activity, "but they've visited your flat. Not since you purchased it, I don't think, because the building recognized him but your wards do not."

"Him?"

Nodding sagely, Theo passed the gossamer bit to Draco. The signature was significantly dimmer now after Draco's incessant prodding and casting against it, no longer a shining beacon in the dark room. He tossed it back and forth between his hands. The little light, representative of the magical DNA of the intruder, bounced almost joyfully between them.

"Sleep on it, mate. I'll pack you the potions you need so you have time to brew more at the Manor."


	6. Recognitionem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Recognition"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews and follows are much appreciated, I love you all.
> 
> Playlist: We Don't Have to Dance - Andy Black | Dig - Incubus

Favors cost more after you are convicted war criminal.

Draco glared at the owl bringing the paperwork from the office of records at Gringotts, accusing it of the exorbitantly higher rates to purchase information. He needed to go to the bank in _person_.

Theo's mention of his flat recognizing the intruder unsettled him enough to _queue_ outside of the bank the next morning. A Malfoy. Queueing.

His year in Azkaban, not only potentially ruining his immune system for the rest of his wretched life, slowed the speed at which he was addressed in institutions like the Ministry or Gringotts. He still moved freely and had every semblance of his former power, but he truly needed to work for it most days, something he was not prepared for. The Malfoys were a long-established name. There were decades behind it, decades of influence and automatic respect. Gaining it back would be Draco's career, while his father and mother rebuilt the fortunes through investments and elfwine. Thoughts like that caused forehead wrinkles.

As he smoked a cigarette on the steps of Gringotts, waiting for the inquiry office to open, he scowled at the early risers of Diagon Alley meandering smells of ground coffee beans twining with fresh baked goods set his stomach growling fiercely. Breakfast could wait, for now, but his reward for good behavior at Gringotts was a warm cheese danish, and a fresh-ground pound of coffee to make a carafe at home. Good behavior was increasingly difficult, these days.

"Master Malfoy?"

Draco extinguished the cigarette smoothly, reaching his other hand over to shake the one outstretched by the Curse Breaker meeting him that day.

"William," he greeted warmly. "Chuffed."

A deep belly laugh rolled up Bill Weasley's throat. "Tosser. I've lain out breakfast tea in my office-"

"Actually, if you have the time," interrupted Draco, "this is more of an onsite concern."

"The manor?" Layers of trepidation colored the older man's voice, his mouth slowly descending to a moue of concern.

Draco laid a hand on his mentor's arm, steadying him. "No, my flat. The manor has nothing to do with this."

"Not that it wouldn't be a welcome distraction to say hello to your mother," Bill said, buttoning up his cloak. "I'm not sure if your father ever wants to see me again."

Strolling down the street together, Draco clapped him on the shoulder once, his hand lingering on the taller man's bicep for reassurance. "Father appreciates all you've done to help us, specifically me, but has never enjoyed feeling indebted. In his own way, he'll come around."

"For some reason, I doubt that."

The pair stopped at the bottom door to Draco's building, the entrance hidden from the main alley street. A few waves of his wand, a charmed skeleton key, and they were walking up the stairs to his home. Even more security measures barred their path before the sweet aroma of a warm fire and leather met their noses.

Bill's eyes narrowed slightly at the show of protection, including a pricked thumb resting against the door jamb, worried at the level of paranoia. He remained silent, choosing instead to follow his apprentice like a shadow: closely and quietly.

In the last year training Draco, as well as a knack for reading people honed through "oldest brother" status, Bill learned several things about the man only a few months younger than Ron. He took his coffee nearly black and drank enough of it to give a hippogryff a heart attack. His flat was always tidy, and Bill'd never seen a house elf within it. He could cook as well as his mother (though he'd never breathe a word to her), and could brew just as well.

But, Draco never stood nervously, arms crossed defensively, with uncombed hair, and eyes darting about as if he was searching for a mouse he'd watched scurry across the floor not a moment before.

"Draco, why did you bring me here. You're on sabbatical from the apprenticeship but I can tell you've been practicing." Bill inhaled deeply. "And your flat reeks of _Finites_ and curses."

"Stop that, were-man," Draco said, relaxing his posture a bit, as he moved into the kitchen to serve his guest. "It's a forced sabbatical, the crup-fuckers at Gringotts will never comprehend what I can and cannot handle."

"Oh, does that go for the Healers, too? They don't know anything either, eh? What did they have to say about it?"

Bill nodded in thanks when Draco handed him a mug of coffee and set a plate on the table in front of him; more like dropped it in front of him, but his tone of voice was not the most understanding at first. He sat before continuing, noting Draco's sudden deafness, and attempted to soften his tone. "Hermione knows how important this is to you, she can't pull any strings?"

Soft, rueful laughter rumbled underneath the clatter of a second mug. "That goody-goody? No."

It was Bill's turn to laugh. "Hermione causes more trouble and breaks more rules than Ron, and he works at the shop making pranks-in-a-can."

"True enough," Draco replied. "But I can't ask her to do that. Not this time."

Bill allowed Draco a silent breakfast, watching the younger man without comment, and wondered what was making him so agitated, and willing to bare his concerns so swiftly. Typically, it took several glasses of liquor, before he became so maudlin.

After placing his used plate and mug in the sink, Draco watched Bill as he pulled out a well-loved leather case. His mentor's eyes often glazed over when the bag unrolled to reveal his tools, but they were sharp, a gold flecked blue, as he carefully selected a solid silver wand-shaped instrument. A brief glance at the charts on his parlor wall noted the proximity of the full moon was likely affecting the redhead's actions.

"What have you performed so far?" The bright silver wand waved over the door frame between the kitchen and parlor, Bill's movements steady and purposeful.

Draco's eyes didn't leave the tip of the instrument, hoping it could extract more glowing ward trails. "I checked the established wards made by the landowner, the ones I made when purchasing the flat, and the basics left over from construction. I caught some ward-glow but it was already showing signs of age, and I'd been away since St. Patrick's Day. Whoever broke in was in and out very quickly, as if they knew where everything was, and were in here twice. And, before you ask, it was not a signature that has entered this flat since I bought it."

Draco respected Bill's intelligence, and watched the tension of his shoulders and crease of his brow as he mentally charted Draco's actions, including the moment he realized what he wasn't saying.

"Not since you bought it?" Bill asked, his question more of a statement as he barreled on, "So the foundation of the building, those wards, knew this person. Was anything missing when you returned?"

Draco relayed every detail he could recall following his return to his home after hospitalization. The reason for his extended absence was, blessedly, not a topic Bill wanted to explore.

Taking the pocketwatch out of his jacket, he handed the wispy, dim, ward-glow to Bill. Treating it like glass, Bill held it in his palm, watching it fade into nothingness within minutes. Another sweep of the flat afterwards, and Bill returned to the sitting room with the floor to ceiling windows, and walked over to his apprentice, a hand outstretched towards the younger man's shoulder.

"You did very well," he said, a proud smile lighting up his face for a moment and stretching the scar that ran from across his right eye and over his nose and lips. "I need to pull up those records you requested showing who owned this building before, but I have a hunch."

Draco regarded him with guarded eyes. "You have more than a hunch or you wouldn't say anything."

"I only know the most recent occupants," Bill started, his face falling. The scar returned to a jagged line rather than a lightning bolt over his features. "And I hesitate to draw conclusions."

"Draw them!" hissed Draco, his gloved hand clenching and unclenching next to him as he resisted grasping his wand. The stress of the past few days was itching under his skin and he was due for another dose of Pepper-up any minute.

"No," Bill replied, a sharp and commanding edge to his tone, using his years as an eldest sibling to attempt to cow Draco into submission. "I don't want to read a _Prophet_ article about you attacking someone over a speculation."

"I can tell when you're lying, Bill. Your Occlumency is atrocious."

Draco bared his teeth in an angry sneer, shoving his hand into his pocket to extract a single cigarette from a silver case. He lit it and took a long drag before speaking again.

"Where the fuck is Charlie?"


	7. Quae est infernum?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What the hell?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist: Makedamnsure - Taking Back Sunday | New Divide - Linkin Park | Sabotage - Beastie Boys

Muscle and flesh meeting leather and wood over and over again set a driving tempo. A carnal cadence. Dull thuds every time a punch or kick landed reverberated through Draco's head, sending tremors along his scalp. The smell of sweat, blood, and an underlying sharpness he couldn't place permeated the air of the gymnasium he was currently stalking through.

A burst of very warm, steamy air halted him in his tracks. The sauna door creaked as it swung shut, a toweled man meandering away from the cloud that had assaulted Draco's delicate skin, flushing to a pink a few shades shy of red. His eyes stung from the distinct cedarwood burn from the sauna, his nose recognizing the previously undetermined sharpness of the coals and wood within the rooms.

The gym was well lit, the bright lights making each line of muscle dripping with sweat shine and spark. Watching a woman several paces away repeatedly striking a boxing training dummy, taking her wand to it in sporadic movements, transfixed him for an instant even as he stalked towards his target.

Draco didn't pause to take in the lines of the man's exposed back, the burns and scars covering the flesh with muscles moving rapidly beneath it, the flashes of gold on his ears, or the close shaved hair that matched the color of his sister's. In a blur of black leather gloves and the same dark robes he'd worn to Gringotts that morning, Draco descended upon Charlie Weasley.

"Weasley," he hissed coldly, striding up behind the man as he landed punch after punch on a dummy of his own.

"Good morning," grunted Charlie in reply, not pausing his training set. Studded gloves on his hand made indents into the dummy's midsection.

"Hardly." Draco's hands shook, suppressed tremors of anger released beneath the leather gloves. He was acutely aware of the man before him resolutely ignoring him to finish his boxing set. "You do a gentleman a dishonor."

Broad shoulders, set a few inches below Draco's own, rolled into another roundhouse. A sharp tang of fresh sweat, before it was broken down into the stink saturating the air, rolled towards him. The long robes, covering him from Adam's apple to the tops of his oxfords, rustled in the currents created by the redheads' intense training.

Draco took a deep breath in through his nose, slowly, resisting the urge to speak again, something against his etiquette training.

He failed miserably.

"Weasley, this is hardly the forum I'd prefer to speak with you, but you leave me no choice."

A flash of white teeth, huffs of breath increasing in depth and tempo as the set moved towards more complicated twists of his arms and knees, Charlie spoke breathlessly, "You could wait until I'm finished here."

"What did you-"

"Take. A. Seat." Charlie ground out, each syllable accentuated with a punch.

Bright ringing filled his hearing, the thudding of punches replaced by the beat of his blood in his ears. Heedless of the crowd gathering around them, like debris caught in the eddies of a stream, Draco snapped.

It took two steps for him to move between the shorter, brawny man and his wooden target. Sinuous leans and snaps of his wrists landed a handful of blows before Charlie reacted to the new opponent. His reflexes didn't reappear a moment too soon, as Draco moved his hand up to snatch the earring out of his right earlobe, a painful opportunity.

"Fuck," shouted Charlie as Draco took the opportunity to land a jab up into Charlie's ribcage, his fingers curling up to abuse his diaphragm. The force wasn't enough to knock the wind out of him, but it did leave him momentarily helpless. Draco wasted no time in shoving Charlie against the wall behind them, shoving his knee between Charlie's legs in an unsubtle show of dominance.

By this point the gym was silent. Charlie's gasps for breath, a bit desperate beneath the force of Draco's forearm, echoed against the furthest walls. The ringing in Draco's ears died down in the wake of the outburst and he found his breathing matching his pinned opponent's.

Their eyes locked after the flurry of a struggle. In the moment, their eyes trailed their assailant's hands and knees, so neither man caught the other's expression until it was diluted by exertion. Blue, dark as the ocean at night, scanned the pale face of the man restraining him, a man with pupils dilated so far they were only limned with steel. Though he was pinned and breathing in pants, cut into short, choked puffs, Charlie's stance was relaxed against the wall behind him instead of pushing back against Draco.

Draco didn't back down, but the adrenaline fueled panting escalated to a tempo just short of hyperventilation. So many eyes watching him in the silent room. The motions of his protective walls, built meticulously over years in order to recreate the Malfoy image, crumbled. He felt each piece of mortar roll down his spine and through his fingertips, helpless to stop it.

In a motion that brought Draco's attention back to his most immediate situation, Charlie struggled against his arm. The more Draco attempted to subdue him, the more each motion moved the black fabric around his wrist damaged in the tussle. Desperation clouded his vision as he tried to ignore what this looked like: a former Death Eater publicly assaulting an innocent man, related to several war heroes, in unprovoked action.

Two heartbeats passed before Charlie jerked again, this time moving the sleeve aside to crush the forearm against his throat between his chin and clavicle.

His reaction was as instantaneous as the prior outburst.

Draco snapped his arm away and lept several feet away from the shirtless dragon-tamer. A bloom of warmth, warmer than the heat of a bonfire, spread around his forearm and drilled beneath his skin. The heat was a warmth he'd not experienced since Azkaban, even with his bare back on burning sand in Spain.

His stomach clenching horrifically, fear tearing away any scrap of bravado he'd walked in with, Draco ran, knocking over several training dummies in his haste.


	8. Caloratus

Double paned windows reverberated from the force of the door slamming behind Draco. His vision wavered and the solid wood floors beneath him rocked like the deck of a ship. Throwing a hand out to catch himself, he missed the wall near the doorway and stumbled to his knees, opting to crawl to his favorite armchair a few feet away.

Heat, nearly unbearable heat, ran through him like fire through his veins. It should have hurt the way it brought him to his knees and made him lose control of his limbs, changing the stiffness he was used to into putty. Draco couldn't decide if the pliant muscles and burning cheeks were unwelcome or just unfamiliar. His thoughts scattered away before he could catch them and form them into a complete idea. The only feeling he could think of to even remotely compare this to was the rush of falling off his broom several hundred feet in the air, and landing hard on his back with only a hastily cast cushioning charm saving him.

The sound of his door opening and closing drew his attention to the front door. His head lolled to the side a bit as he moved, his body limp against the leather chair beneath him. Red hair was all he could make out before the person invading his well-warded home with ease came over to inspect him. Cool fingers rested against his forehead. "You are a bona fide menace, Draco."

"What're you on about, Weasley?" Draco muttered into his chest, lifting a hand to try to move Bill away.

"I should get your license revoked for putting me in a full body bind, you know," Bill continued, easily ignoring Draco's efforts. He slipped his hands under the younger man's armpits to haul him up. Draco tried to help him and stand on his own, he truly did, but his knees shook and gave out. To his credit, Bill grunted and hauled Draco up into his arms like one of his children and started the slow walk to the bedroom.

"Taking advantage, Weasley?" Draco slurred.

Bill almost choked on laughter. "Fuck no, Malfoy. Not even in your dreams. I do like blondes but I'm happily taken...and you're not my type."

"Mmm...room is spinning."

"You have a fever, by the feel of you. Don't you dare puke on me. I'm going to call Hermione or Theo to see if they can watch you while I take care of the mess you started."

"Didn't start anything."

Bill rolled his eyes, but Draco had his closed so he missed it. "You threatened by brother in a public gymnasium in front of several witches and wizards after incapacitating me. It could be very messy if Charlie wants to press verbal assault charges so I plan on getting his side of the story before the Aurors can."

"He started it," Draco said. He sighed as he felt his head hit his pillow, happy for the coolness of the silk. "I was just there to ask him a few questions and he made me like this."

Bill ceased rustling around the room so he could make out Draco's muffled words. "What did you say? Did Charlie cast a spell on you?"

Draco shrugged, his face halfway pressed into the pillow. "Don't know. Got really warm when he touched me."

As Draco slipped closer towards blissful unconsciousness, he faintly heard Bill speaking to Hermione through the Floo. The dull thud of her sensible heels as she walked across the hardwood floor was muffled as soon as she stepped into the carpeted bedroom. Little runes danced behind his eyelids in time to her spellcasting, and he let them hypnotize him into a deep sleep.


	9. Somnum Exterrei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nightmare

**-** _**Somnum exterreri** _ **-**

 

Draco Malfoy was in hell.

His skin was trying to rip itself from his muscles and bones, straining and scratching at his sanity. Sandpaper trapped him above and below. He was awake but not aware, fighting the bites of a million creatures he couldn’t see crawling under his skin and dodging his nails as he scratched and picked and thrashed and screamed until he couldn’t feel his throat.

Until the screams in his mind started to reverberate in his ears and his jaw ached so badly that he realized he was the one screaming, sitting up in bed and straining against hands at either side of him attempting to keep him on the mattress.

“Draco, breathe in through your nose!”

He tried and all he could taste was brimstone, choking him. At least the screaming stopped.

“Again, please, again,” the voice on his right begged. Hermione, her hands cold where they wrapped around his bicep and over his shoulder, guiding him back towards the pillows. The sheets didn’t feel as much like sandpaper the further he moved into wakefulness. He did as she asked even though each time his lungs filled with air through his lungs, it burned and burned and burned.

“He still feels feverish, Hermione,” Theo said. His voice was too far away for him to be one of the people holding him down. “Want me to check again?”

“Please,” said Hermione.

Ice cold fingers left his skin and he opened his eyes enough to see her spin away towards the window. A few blurry movements later and she’d drawn the curtains back over the glass to block what little spring sunshine was coming in. Theo touched the inside of Draco’s wrist as he sat on the other side of the bed, the side facing the door to the living room. His shoulders, broad beneath his robes, obscured Draco’s vision of most of the room so he couldn’t find the third person, the one who’d held him back on his left side and whose hands had nearly wrapped around his entire forearm, the one with the Dark Mark burned to his skin. Footsteps landed slowly on the hardwood floor as the unidentified person left the room.

Too tired to call out, Draco relented his efforts to sit up, resting against the pillows charmed to keep him almost upright. Theo’s charms filled the air until the glowing runes landed on a waiting parchment held out by Hermione.

“Not great,” she said, “but much better than a few hours ago.”

Theo stared at Draco, his eyes narrowed a bit. Draco imagined he was trying to figure out if this was like the episodes he used to have after the war, leaving town for a few days on a destructive rampage in the back of the Malfoy estate, entering the moors a wild man and leaving them a week later back to normal. Theo stayed at the manor for a few months after the Dark Lord’s defeat to help purge it of the scummy black magic left behind.  Draco helped him at Nott Manor once his family’s estate was finally released to his name instead of his father’s. He wore the same face of concern the first few hours after Draco would come back home. But, instead of asking outright, Theo kept staring and chewing on his curiosity until Draco shook his head.

“It’s not like that, Theo.”

“What’s it like, then? The last I saw of you, you were hell bent on following the trail of magic left behind here.”

Draco sighed and leaned more heavily into the pillows. Hermione sat with her legs crossed beneath her on a chair by the window. Instead of looking at Theo he watched as his best friend’s wife took notes and listened without watching.

“The trail led to the gym near the Ballycastle Bat’s stadium. I went in, made a mistake, and came back here when I felt like I was burning alive from the inside.”

Hermione looked up then. “Elaborate on ‘made a mistake’ for me.”

“Shouldn’t I have a glass of water or tea to help with my fever?”

“Don’t change the subject, Draco, I swear to god-”

“He interrupted my training session.”

Draco watched as Charlie Weasley slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket. The lump in his throat pinched tighter for a brief moment, irritating his dry throat. Taking the chance, Draco reached over to grab the glass on the table next to him, meaning to conjure  _ aguamenti _ into it but Hermione did it nonverbally for him with a flick of her wand so swift that Draco could hear her wrist crack. Drinking the water meant he could avoid eye contact with Hermione or Charlie, so he did.

Hermione turned to look at the man who’d entered the room moments before, her face unamused and lips thin. Her voice was bordering shrill as she demanded, “Oh, is that all? He interrupted your  _ training _ which rendered him unconscious with a fever that would kill a Muggle?”

“Don’t,” Draco said, interrupting Hermione before she placed blame in the wrong place. He folded his hands on his lap to exude as much aristocratic command as possible. The bridge of his nose begged to be pinched, but he resisted. “Don’t blame him, Hermione.”

The look on her face would have been amusing in a less tense situation. “What happened-”

“I don’t know,” Draco interrupted. “Everything is...muddled right now. My throat is on fire. Don’t you think I want to solve this as much as you do?”

When Hermione glared even harder, if that were possible, Draco rolled his eyes and held his hands out in surrender, the sleeves of his pajamas fluttering over his over-sensitized skin. His throat still burned so he took another long drink of water. When the glass was emptied, Theo filled it for him with a quiet admonishment that Draco shouldn’t cast any spells yet.

“Let’s let him sleep,” Charlie said in the stifling silence. “And we can talk magical theories in the morning.”

Without knowing the man, Draco couldn’t read the emotions in Charlie’s voice as well as he wanted to, so he watched curiously as Hermione huffed in annoyance. A small victory over the witch’s insatiable need to  _ know _ everything, to be sure, but a victory nonetheless. Charlie walked out of the room after meeting Theo’s eyes long enough to nod, and his voice mixed softly with Bill’s in the sitting room. Their voices were too faint to make out individual words but Draco didn’t think he was imagining the tension between the brothers. A sick feeling planted itself in his stomach at the idea he was the cause of any sort of strain between the two.

Hermione closed her notebook with a snap and banished it back to what he assumed was her study at Nott Manor where the rest of her private notes were held. “I’ll stay here with you, Draco. I want to be here in case your night terrors return.”

Rolling his eyes again, Draco mustered enough snark as he settled further under the covers to say to Theo, “Your witch is a menace.”

A besotted smirk bloomed over Theo’s lips and the sight of that pure happiness made Draco’s heart ache unexpectedly. Draco chased sleep as he listened to the muffled sounds of life outside his bedroom door, the four houseguests undoubtedly discussing just what to do with him when he woke up.

 


End file.
